


Two Stories

by nessatheresa12121



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 03:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nessatheresa12121/pseuds/nessatheresa12121
Summary: Helen Parr is not inclined to believe the best about people before she'll believe the worst. She's learned her lesson and learned it well.  That's why, when she discovers the blonde hair on her husband's suit, her mind instantly jumps to conclusions.Two stories about Elastigirl and trust: one from the old glory days, and one from her middle age.





	Two Stories

Helen was not one to believe the best about people.

A less-than-stellar childhood and a string of bad relationships had ensured it. Of course, Helen could roll with the punches, _literally_ , and if a boyfriend tried to hit her, she’d simply melt into the blow with her elastic body before punching right back. And while no man’s punches could hurt her, hers could certainly hurt a man.

Not to be dramatic. Helen had only ever had two boyfriends who’d tried it, and since she’d left a string of broken hearts behind her as long as Route 20, this was a pretty good track record. Both times, she hadn’t stayed long. Helen was not one to tolerate abuse for one second, and she knew it when she saw it.

Other boyfriends hadn’t been quite so overt. They’d offer harsh words, or a pinch that was a little too hard to be playful. Still others hadn’t even been that obvious with their abuse, instead trying to manipulate Helen in tiny, but not-insignificant ways. And she never failed to notice. And she never failed to dump their asses.

It wasn’t just boyfriends or family who had caused Helen’s cynicism. As a super, she’d seen more than her fair share of criminals, vandals and bad eggs. She remembered a few times early in her career, when she was a naïve kid wearing a badly-stitched homemade super suit and not even old enough to drink, let alone be out on the street patrolling for bad guys. More than once, she’d allowed a criminal to escape simply because they made goo-goo eyes at her and spouted a sob story and promised never to do it again—and, like a sucker, she felt sorry for them. Now that she was an adult, Helen was certain these criminals had seen her youth and exploited it. Every single one of them had broken their promises and ended up back on the streets committing yet another crime. After a time, Helen learned her lesson, became jaded. Elastigirl never allowed another criminal to escape her reach again.

Except once.

She was maybe twenty years old. It was the morning after a long night of crimefighting, the first hints of pink dawn just beginning to shed their light on the clouds above Municiberg. In her red and white superhero costume, Elastigirl swung around the city like Spider-Man in the comics she’d been fond of as a little girl. She’d stopped a rape and three attempted robberies the evening before, and she was just about ready to call it a night and head home.

When she saw the woman.

The woman stood on the sidewalk. She was young, only a little older than Elastigirl herself, and wore a long, ratty wool coat, too heavy for this time of year. Underneath a bump protruded, showing the woman to be several months pregnant. Her blonde hair was messy and tangled; her eyes sunken and ringed with black circles—whether she was exhausted or she’d been beaten up recently, Elastigirl could not tell.

The girl didn’t look to be in trouble, so Elastigirl intended to simply head on by. But the woman raised a hand as she saw Elastigirl. “Help!”

Elastigirl wasn’t one to reject a call for help. It was what she was here for. So she jogged over to the pregnant woman.

“What’s the trouble, ma’am?”

The streets were nearly empty, as it was so early in the morning. It was just the two of them. “I’m living in the women’s shelter down the street,” the woman explained. “I don’t have much. About a week ago, this really kind lady gave me this huge box full of powdered formula packets. It would’ve made life a whole lot easier. But…” The woman clutched her thin hands together in front of her, seeming like she was ready to cry. “Like ten minutes ago, this guy came along and stole it from me.”

Elastigirl felt a surge of rage and indignation. How low do you have to be to steal baby formula from a homeless pregnant woman? “Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll get the bastard,” she promised. “Which way did he go?”

The woman sniffled, pointed down the street. “That way.”

Elastigirl was off like a bullet. She used her stretchy arms to propel her down the street, making use of street lamps to pull and launch her along, akin to a human slingshot. There weren’t many people out, and before long, she spotted the guy. Wearing a trench coat, carrying a box of baby formula, and glancing around him like he expected someone was in pursuit, he stuck out like a sore thumb. After watching him nervously stalk down the street for a moment from her vantage point on top of a brick building, she launched down onto the street, landing in an easy crouch in front of him and standing up to her full height.

(Which wasn’t much, by the way.)

“That yours?” she asked casually, gesturing to the box. But there was a clear edge to her voice, one that told the thief that this was no casual meeting.

He clutched the box closer to his chest and glared at the superhero. “Look, lady, it’s none of your buisne—”

With a very satisfying meaty sound, she punched him square in the jaw. Stunned, the would-be thief fell to the concrete sidewalk. Elastigirl leaned down and picked the box up from his now-limp arms. “Thanks, buddy,” she said with sarcastic sweetness as she stepped over his body. She placed the box on a nearby porch step before dragging the man’s body closer to the porch and handcuffing him to the metal railing. She used a nearby pay phone to dial the police and tell them where they could pick up the trash, then picked up the formula once again, giving a snide backward glance at the groaning criminal before heading off to return the stolen property.

Jesus, what kind of scum steals _baby formula?_ It was almost too nasty to be believed. Shaking her head, Elastigirl headed back down the street, finding the pregnant woman still standing in the same place she’d left her. The super handed the box over to the civilian, who clasped it between grateful hands.

“Thanks. I knew I could count on you, Elastigirl.” She offered up a toothy smile. “I’d better get back to the shelter.”

“You need an escort, ma’am? Municiberg isn’t a nice place at—” Elastigirl chuckled at herself. “I was going to say ‘at night,’ but it’s morning, isn’t it?”

The woman laughed lightly. “Yeah, I guess it is. No, I think I’ll be okay. Thanks again.” With that, she started to walk away.

Elastigirl squinted at the woman’s body as she headed off. Something wasn’t quite right…

The baby bump had _deflated_. One side was still round, but the other had caved in like a popped basketball under the wool coat. It looked sickly unnatural to Elastigirl’s eyes. For some reason—maybe because she was still so young and naïve—her first thought wasn’t “fraud,” it was “medical emergency.”

“Ma’am!” she cried, rushing over to the woman and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

The woman seemed bewildered for a second, but her eyes followed Elastigirl’s and noticed her own deflated bump. “Oh.” She giggled nervously, turning red in the light of dawn, and seemed to be searching for an excuse. “Um. Um. This runs in my family.”

“What…?” Elastigirl scrunched up her nose in confusion, but before she could ask another question, the woman had placed one hand on her shoulder and shoved the superhero away with more strength than her slim build betrayed. Unprepared for the action, Elastigirl stumbled several steps backward, and before she could regain her footing, the woman dashed away. As she did, something fell from under her coat and bounced along the road. It took Elastigirl a few seconds to figure out what it was.

It was… a half-deflated basketball.

Growling at her own incompetence, Elastigirl engaged pursuit with the young woman. Despite her head start and her desperation, the girl was still only a civilian, and Elastigirl was a superhero, so the chase wasn’t a fair one. Elastigirl caught up within seconds, stretching her arm a few meters to grab the woman’s forearm and hold it fast. The woman rolled her eyes as she was pulled to a stop.

“Whoa, whoa! Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Elastigirl demanded. “And what’s in that box?”

“Nothing—none of your business!”

“Like hell it isn’t.” With one hand wrapped elastically around the woman’s arm and holding tight—she wasn’t going anywhere—Elastigirl snatched the box from the woman with the other hand, stretching her arm so she could hold the box while also deftly ripping it open with her fingers. She pulled apart the cardboard flaps.

Oh, god, she should’ve known. Dozens and dozens of small, unmarked plastic baggies, each containing a little bit of white powder. And Elastigirl didn’t think it was baby powder.

“What is this?” she exclaimed, staring the woman down. “Crack? Heroin?”

Surly, the woman didn’t meet Elastigirl’s eyes, staring sullenly down at the ground instead.

Annoyed and angry that she’d been so easily duped, Elastigirl lifted one of the baggies and waved it in the woman’s face. “I asked you a question. What is this?”

“Like I said. Not your business.”

“And that guy, who was _he?_ ”

“He really _did_ steal it from me,” the woman insisted, like it made a difference.

“So what, so you pretend to be pregnant to get a super’s sympathy? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, look! What does it even matter if I’m pregnant? Something was stolen from me and I wanted it back. You got it for me. _Thank you_ ,” said the girl, scowling eyes speaking of sarcasm. “Now let me go.”

“Come on, honey, you know I can’t do that. What is this box worth on the street? Millions? More?”

Again, the girl didn’t answer and didn’t meet Elastigirl’s eyes. With that response, Elastigirl suspected she was near the mark.

She felt a sudden sympathy. The girl probably wasn’t as old as Elastigirl had originally estimated. Maybe she was even younger than Elastigirl. And she really _did_ look homeless—you can fake a pregnancy with a basketball, but you can’t easily fake the desperation and jadedness that grows when you live on the streets for a time.

The girl seemed to sense Elastigirl’s sympathies and pounced on them. “Please, Elastigirl. Don’t take me to prison. I won’t survive there.”

“Should’ve thought of that sooner,” Elastigirl murmured, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore.

The woman made limpid doe-eyes. Very convincing ones, at that. “Look, I—I was desperate. I’m not into drugs, alcohol, any of that shit. I’m not a criminal. This was just a delivery. When I deliver, I get money for food. When I don’t deliver, I get beat up. It’s a simple equation.”

Seeing the dark rings around the girl’s eyes, Elastigirl wasn’t convinced that they were merely exhaustion-circles anymore. “Look, honey. You direct me to the dealer, and I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget,” she swore. “He won’t mess with you again. I promise.”

The girl shook her head angrily. “It doesn’t work like that. Ugh, how the hell would _you_ know?”

Elastigirl understood. She’d experienced many shitty circumstances in her life, but living on the street and couriering drugs for a living wasn’t one of them. She didn’t understand, it was true.

“He’ll just beat you up worse, huh?” Elastigirl guessed. “And if I take him to prison, he’ll just send his cronies to beat you for him?”

The girl nodded.

Elastigirl _tsk_ ed, fully overtaken by sympathy. She couldn’t help it. “Well, you’re in a real mess, aren’t you, kid,” she said sadly.

“Yup. So how about you give me that box and I’ll be on my way and we can just stop bothering each other. Huh?”

Elastigirl weighed her options. It was against her conscience to allow a huge box of drugs like this to escape onto the street, but it was _also_ against her conscience to allow a homeless girl to get the crap beaten out of her. And Elastigirl knew which option was _more_ offensive to her conscience. Wasn’t it obvious?

With an I-give-up exhale, she relinquished her elastic hold on the girl’s arm, and held the box out towards her. For a moment, the girl just stared, as if unable to believe that this was happening.

“Here, just take it,” Elastigirl sighed. “Never let anybody say I’m not a _nice_ hero.”

For another second, the girl gazed at the red-and-white clad superhero in shock, before snapping to action and quickly grabbing the box from her hands. “Thanks, Elastigirl,” she said, with what sounded like genuine gratefulness. “I won’t forget this.” She started to turn away.

“Wait a sec.” Elastigirl stopped the girl’s retreat with a hand on her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

The girl blinked in discomfort. “Um… Heather.”

Elastigirl had her doubts over whether this was the girl’s real name or not, but she didn’t press it. “Listen up, Heather. I’m doing you a favor by letting you go. Will you make me a promise?”

“Okay…” The girl shuffled her feet, suspicious and itching to flee.

Elastigirl glared deeply into the girl’s eyes, hoping she was making some sort of impression. “I get that it’s a hard life out there. I get that there’s not many on-the-level ways to make a living. But I just want you to promise me that you’ll get clean. You’ll break ties with the dealer, whoever he is. You’ll try to get a legitimate job, feed yourself that way. I _don’t_ want to see you ferrying drugs around the streets again, Heather.” As Heather opened her mouth to protest, Elastigirl spoke over her. “Look, there’s this place. Three-fifteen Rye Street. They make their living helping girls like you. Tell them Elastigirl sent you, they’ll be extra nice. I’ll check with them in a few weeks, see how you’re doing.”

The girl didn’t look convinced, so Elastigirl lifted her chin with a finger and said sharply, “Promise me, dammit.”

“Yeah, I promise,” the girl mumbled.

“Okay. That’s all I can ask.” Elastigirl stepped away. “Three-fifteen Rye. Don’t forget. And don’t let me down.”

She didn’t have a whole lot of hope that the girl would keep her promise. After all, Elastigirl did know that the street life was hard to escape, especially if drugs and gangs were involved. But something inside of her cared, desperately, whether the wary-looking girl with hollow eyes managed to pull herself above water. It wasn’t some hokey thing, like the girl reminded Elastigirl of herself or some garbage like that, because she didn’t. It was just something Elastigirl couldn’t explain. A deep sense of concern, almost _motherly_. The girl’s face haunted her dreams.

Three weeks later, she visited the Women’s Help Center at 315 Rye St., only to learn that no girl named Heather had sought their help. Well, maybe Heather wasn’t her name after all. Elastigirl drew a crude sketch. She was a decent artist, and she remembered the girl’s face well, so it was an impressive likeness. When they looked at the sketch, the people at the Center said they’d never seen the person.

Big surprise. Elastigirl left, dispirited.

Not long after, it was midnight in Municiberg, and Elastigirl came across the scene of a convenience store heist. In retrospect, she shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that one of the robbers, who clutched a Beretta M1951 between two steady hands, was Heather. The other one was a skinny man with hollow eyes just like the girl’s. Both wore balaclavas, but Elastigirl was good with faces _and_ voices, and she recognized Heather’s as soon as she spoke. It didn’t hurt that the girl was wearing the same ratty wool coat, either. Elastigirl wouldn’t have been surprised if it was the only item of clothing Heather owned.

After managing to usher the scared-shitless night cashier out of the building, Elastigirl tried to reason with the robbers. “Look, just put the money back—”

“Over my dead body,” Heather shouted, finger dangerously close to the trigger. “We _need_ this fucking cash. Just let us go.”

Her male companion nodded frantically. He was clutching a burlap bag, around fifty dollars from the cash register stuffed inside, along with a few lottery tickets. Elastigirl wondered how desperate you had to be, to risk your entire future over fifty bucks and some lotto tickets. Sadly, the answer was: not very.

“Look,” Elastigirl said sharply, “if you don’t put down that damn bag, things are gonna get messy in here real quick. And I don’t mean for _me_.” Some part of her was furious that Heather had not only ignored her advice but had pretty much done the exact opposite. But that wasn’t the issue at hand now.

Heather held the gun even higher. “Don’t think I won’t shoot.”

“Oh, I know you will. And when you do, _I_ won’t get hurt, but _you’ll_ be on the hook for attempted murder, sweetheart. Is that what you want?”

“If I know you won’t get hurt when I shoot, how can it be attempted murder?” Heather demanded. But suddenly, the girl switched tactics. Her eyes fell to the ground, away from Elastigirl’s. The gun dropped slightly, but noticeably. She gave a shaky sigh.

“Look, this is my job. I rob stores and bring my boss the money. If I bring the money, I get a cut. If I don’t bring the money, I get beat up. It’s simple. I don’t have a choice.”

This was the first thing that had happened tonight that really surprised Elastigirl. Heather must believe Elastigirl didn’t recognize her, and she was trying the same story again, only with a different twist. Had the first one even been true? Was this one true? Were they both lies? Elastigirl highly suspected the latter was the case.

“Nice try, _Heather_. Don’t think I don’t recognize you. A drug dealer one month, a career bank robber the next. You’re quite the Renaissance woman, huh?” Quick as the snap of a whip, Elastigirl’s hand stretched across the convenience store, grabbing the gun by the barrel—a ballsy move, but she knew if it went off, Edna’s super suit would protect her—and yanking it away from Heather. “You should’ve taken my advice, you know.”

Heather blinked at her, hands still held in the air and seemingly unable to believe the gun was gone. She exchanged a glance with her partner, then suddenly both of them bolted, heading towards the swung-open back door. Elastigirl stopped them, stretching across the room and around their bodies to slam the door shut before they could reach it.

The police arrived in short order, and Heather and her male accomplice were led outside into the parking lot and taken away in handcuffs. One of the policemen scoffed at the sight of Heather. “You _again_?”

The girl made a childish face at the officer before being shoved into the back of a cop car.

Elastigirl, who was standing nearby, glanced at the cop, unsure if she wanted to hear the story behind his words. “Uh, what do you mean, ‘you again’?”

He scoffed again, jerking a thumb towards Heather, who was now encased in the car’s backseat. “That’s Delia Hawkins. Spoiled little rich girl and adrenaline junkie extraordinaire. Likes to pretend she’s homeless and involve herself with crime just for the thrill. We know her face well by now. Don’t we, Delia?” he shouted lightly toward the car. From behind a tinted window, the shape of Delia could faintly be seen raising her middle finger.

The words bit at Elastigirl, and bit hard, for reasons she could not fully explain. She opened her mouth, intending to request a moment alone to speak with H—Delia. But then she closed her mouth again, deciding against that idea. Stupid idea anyway.

“Thanks, officer,” she muttered instead, and headed off into the night, until the flashing cop car lights faded away behind her.

She’d allowed herself to get sucked in by a sad tale, by a girl’s hollow eyes and practiced storytelling. She’d allowed her heart to swell and feel sympathy for somebody who decidedly did not deserve it. What kind of idiot was she? Elastigirl had never suspected she could be so stupid. She fancied herself someone who could read people, and she’d been suckered in like the idiot she truly was. She imagined Delia Hawkins laughing at Elastigirl’s foolish earnestness, and the thought made her clench her hands tight into fists. Idiot, idiot.

She should’ve taken Delia in, that day when she’d caught her with the drugs. The girl’s untrustworthiness should have been clear as day. Elastigirl was lucky that no one had been shot during the convenience store robbery, but if they had, it would’ve been _her_ fault for letting Dahlia free.

She wrestled with it for a while. For longer than she should’ve. A few weeks, actually. Some days, she felt her compassion was her best virtue; her ability to understand and empathize with people, to try and see things from their point of view, was an asset rather than a liability. On other days it was the opposite and she cursed herself for being a naïve child.

Elastigirl knew she had to find balance between mercy and justice, empathy and shrewdness.  But as she grew older and her super career blossomed, she found herself leaning heavily towards the latter options rather than the former. She was tough on criminals, with a suspicious and discerning eye for liars. With each one she encountered, she remembered Delia Hawkins, though she tried her best to forget. Delia turned into a nasty archetype in her mind, a symbol of what all criminals could potentially be. Liars, con men, all looking for the cleverest way they could think of to escape her clutches. Of course, some were cleverer than others. She gave none any leeway.

If Elastigirl caught a criminal, she would heed no sob stories. The media people started calling her “no-nonsense” and “not to be messed with,” and she appreciated that. If her reputation preceded her, evildoers would be less likely to try her patience.

During interviews, she made her viewpoint clear, staring hard into the camera as though the camera’s lens was Delia’s face. “I don’t believe in second chances. Sure, everybody has a sob story, but if I catch you red-handed, don’t bother telling me about your dead mother or your mob debt or whatever, because I’m not gonna listen to that crock. Poor old you, yeah, sure.” She waved dismissively. “Listen, it’s my job to catch criminals. It’s a criminal’s job to get caught by me. Simple enough, right? It is _not_ my job to feel sorry for these guys. They’re on the street for one reason: they’ve got no morals. They’ll lie and cheat, do whatever it takes to make life better for themselves, because that’s all they care about. Themselves.”

And she half-meant it, too. Saying it often enough, she almost convinced herself.

 

Back to our original topic. Helen did not trust people easily.

She was quick to believe the worst, to judge, even about her own family, even about her own husband, and if she didn’t tolerate lying or cheating with criminals, she damn well wasn’t going to tolerate it from _him_.

That’s why, when Helen Parr, who by now was a mother of three and fifteen years married, found a long blonde hair on her husband’s suit… she instantly jumped to some very sleazy conclusions indeed.

She was a long-suffering wife. Oh, not to toot her own horn, but she _was_ and nobody could deny it. Her husband was distracted, uninvolved, constantly buried in a newspaper or in his own fantasies about the superhero work they’d done twenty years ago. And sometimes they weren’t just fantasies. Several times they’d been forced out of their lives because of his foolishness, because he’d felt such lust for his golden years that he’d forget the well-being of his family in order to relive them. And then the family would need to move, to protect their super identities. Helen didn’t know how many more times the government would pay to relocate them before finally throwing up their hands and saying, “No more.” She suspected the Parr family didn’t have many strikes left.

In any case, she loved her husband and loved him fiercely, but between his long hours at work and his superhero fantasies, she was practically raising the kids on her own. Bob was probably only interested in their children’s powers, anyway. Not them as _people_. It was really painful for Helen to admit that, or even think it, but it was true.  

She may have suspected that of Bob, and she may have suspected him of listening for crimes or incidents on the police scanner, but she had never _ever_ suspected him of an affair.

If their sex life was dwindling, it wasn’t Helen’s fault. She was still, to put it crudely, as horny as a teenager. Her sex drive hadn’t slowed down from her college years, even after three kids and one-and-a-half decades of marriage. In a reversal of stereotypes, it was _Bob_ who was uninterested, _Bob_ who would fake a headache or pretend to be asleep when Helen wanted to make love. It had been that way for years. Bedroom-wise, Helen was still in her honeymoon phase, still lusted after her husband. And it hurt her, cut her deeply, when she felt his rejection—no matter how gentle. Sure, there had been a resurgence in the last few months—a delicious, luscious resurgence in how much Bob lusted after her, inexplicable but welcome. Yet, it too had dwindled off, leaving her confused and irritated. It never lasted.

And now… now she might know the reason why.

That blonde hair. Silver, actually, with just the tiniest hint of brown at the root—an immaculate dye job.

She pinched it between two fingers, staring quizzically. And though the concept of Bob having an affair had never before entered her mind, it did now, in brilliant detail and vivid color. A beautiful blonde woman, busty and more well-toned than Helen, who still carried a few extra sagging pounds of baby weight. A breezy, uncaring woman, unattached and carrying no strings to hold Bob back, a wealthy woman who would wear sunglasses and carry Prada bags full of her latest shopping exploits, a woman who would show Bob the life of a jetsetter and fuck him senseless to boot. Images flashed through Helen’s mind, not wanted, but arriving just the same, of how Bob and this woman would fuck.

Or maybe it was a man. A long-haired, pretty man who would lie facedown, giggling, and let Bob have his way. Helen fancied herself a progressive woman who would proudly insist that gays didn’t bother her—in fact, she was quite the ladies’ woman herself, or at least she had been, decades ago—but somehow, the idea of Bob rejecting her for a _man?_ It made her instantly queasy deep in the pit of her stomach.

She had to face the facts. It was far more likely that, rather than a long-haired man who spent lots of money on dye, this hair belonged to a woman.

Helen had been to Bob’s office. She’d delivered him lunch there a few times on days when he’d left it behind at the house by mistake; he was a forgetful guy, after all. The people who worked there were drab as all hell, and the only women Helen had seen were frumpy and gray-haired, not the kind of women who would leave behind a hair like this, let alone the kind of women who Bob would romantically pursue. Unless Bob had been introduced to a sexy new co-worker in the last few months…

Helen just couldn’t imagine a casual, non-suspicious situation where a woman would get close enough to leave a hair on Bob’s suit’s chest like that. There was no innocent explanation, and she didn’t think she was being irrational, either.

She wanted to ask him, point-blank, and hear him stutter some excuse. But she knew she wouldn’t like the answer and would spend hours interrogating him, starting sugary-sweet but growing nastier with each moment with her fury, verbally ripping him apart, and it would grow into a screaming match that the neighbors would be talking about for a decade.

She didn’t want that. She just wanted the truth.

But moments later, the phone rang, and though Helen was the one who usually answered it, she heard Bob yell through the house, “Don’t answer it, honey! I got it!” He was almost _frantic_.

Her suspicions fully ignited, she obeyed Bob and didn’t answer the phone. Instead, she picked it up and merely listened as he spoke.

A woman’s husky voice on the other end. “How soon can you get here?”

Here? Where was _here?_ The whore’s house? Her mansion, on some cushy boulevard somewhere? A posh hotel where they’d sit poolside, drinking margaritas and sneaking glances at each other, just as Helen and Bob had done on their honeymoon?

“I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” murmured Bob. Helen had rarely heard him speak to anyone that way before, in that low sultry tone he usually reserved for _her_. It was a lover’s tone. No, she wasn’t being paranoid. That was a lover’s voice he was using on that woman, that skank, whoever the hell she was.

Moments later, when Bob hung up the phone and opened the door of his den, Helen was there waiting for him.

“Who was that, honey? The office?” she asked lightly, but she knew Bob could hear the razorblade under her words.

He squirmed. “Uh, another conference. Short notice, but… y’know… duty calls?” With an awkward giggle, Bob skirted around Helen, avoiding her eyes, and he was gone.

She stared after him, watching his huge back retreat down the hall, staring daggers into him. She didn’t know whether to feel a surge of fury or a crushing bout of self-pity. Maybe both.

“Conference, my ass,” she muttered darkly to herself.

 

That night, Helen lay in bed beside her husband and tried to fit the pieces of this puzzle together. Mysterious phone calls, avoiding sex, vague “conferences,” unknown women’s hairs on his suits where they shouldn’t be… Helen felt it should be obvious to anyone, least of all her, as shrewd as she fancied herself. Anyone with a brain, when presented with the evidence, would say, “That man is having an affair.” A jury would convict. A judge would sentence. Open-and-shut.

So why couldn’t Helen accept it?

Bob was reading a book about World War II—likely, poring over the passages about superhero contributions to the war effort—while Helen was curled on her side away from him, trying to pretend like she was capable of sleeping on a night like this. But her restlessness compelled her to sit up, leaning towards Bob and placing a hand on his muscular arm.

“Honey…” she crooned.

Bob barely glanced at her. Ten years ago, he would’ve been inside her already. “Uh, what?” he droned, still engrossed in whatever paragraph he was reading.

“We haven’t had sex in months,” she said bluntly, getting straight to the point. “And I want you. I _want_ you, Bob.”

If this didn’t work, then nothing would. Before Helen would try the method of brute force, she would try a subtler method. She would attempt to win her husband back by reminding him why he married her in the first damn place.

He wasn’t even listening. “Uh, that’s good.”

She shook his arm almost violently. “Goddammit, Bob, _look_ at me!”

He did, casting a surprised glance at her. “Jeez, Helen, what’s wrong?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I want you.” She leaned closer. “I’ve always wanted you. Why can’t we have sex like we did before the kids? Am I too fat, too old? What is it, Bob?”

She was being sarcastic—but only half.

He heavily sighed, folding his book on his lap. “Oh, Helen, do we have to talk about this now?”

“If not now, then when, Bob?” she asked flatly.

“Oh, dammit, I guess you’re right. Listen, honey… I’m sorry if you felt that way. You’re not too old and fat, you’re gorgeous.” He laughed. “ _I’m_ too old and fat for _you_.”

She folded her arms. “You’re doing good so far. Continue.”

“Right. Um… I don’t know what to say, Helen.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m just tired and overworked and, oh, Helen, you know how it is at the office. Huph is always nagging me, and I’m busy all day, you know. When I get home I just want to relax and sleep.”

“ _I_ can be relaxing.” Her hand squeezed his forearm.

“Sure you can, hon.” But his heart wasn’t in it. She could tell; let no one say that Helen Parr didn’t know her husband inside and out.

“So how about now?” She wanted to climb into his lap, but that book was in the way. She settled for leaning in close and nipping at his ear, whispering directly into it. “You feeling relaxed yet? You wanna do something… _less_ relaxing?”

Ten years ago, it hadn’t taken this much effort to get Bob’s gears turning. He’d practically sprung a hard-on at the sight of her.

Fifteen or twenty years ago… it had been even better.

But right now, Bob didn’t shift and groan at the feel of flesh on flesh. He just sat there. “Not right now, honey, I’m just not up to it. I’m sorry.” He offered a limp excuse: “I guess it’s my old age. I’m not a young stud anymore.”

She spoke some words that practically killed her soul. Desperate times, desperate measures.

“Do you want me to put my old super suit on?” she murmured into his ear.

Bob pulled away and frowned in confusion. “What?”

“I can put my Elastigirl suit on, I still have it. And you can put your Mr. Incredible suit on, and we can have a little fun. The kids are asleep…” She trailed a hand across his pajama-clad chest. “What do you say, lover?”

This was her last resort. If he didn’t respond to this, nothing would work.

And he didn’t.

Slightly annoyed, Bob pushed her hand away. “No, Helen. What the hell? Someone might see.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re worried about someone seeing?” she demanded, her fury coming to the surface. “Sure, all those times you went out in public and did vigilante work and ruined our goddamn lives, you weren’t worried about who the hell saw you, but now that we’re alone in our private bedroom with the blinds down—”

“Jesus, Helen. Where’s this coming from?”

“ _Where’s this—?_ ” But even as she prepared to incredulously screech at him, Helen forcibly calmed herself. “You know what?  You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just… horny, Bob. And you’re not helping,” she huffed, pretending it was just a simple matter of lust, rather than issues that spanned a decade.

Bob laughed a little uncomfortably. “Sorry, sweetheart. You know, if you want to head into the spare bedroom with your, ahem, _female massager_ , I wouldn’t blame you.”

Of course Helen had a magic wand. It was a necessity, even if Bob _had_ been attentive to her every sexual whim. A woman has needs.

But not tonight. Tonight, she wanted emotional closure that a magic wand—or anything or anyone other than Bob Parr—just couldn’t fucking give her.

That single blonde hair floated in her mind, a menace.

“You know, just forget it, Bob.” She pulled the covers up over herself, curling on her side away from him once again. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

With a grunt of acknowledgement, her oblivious husband returned to his reading, unaware of how disgusting and disgusted Helen felt. She could so clearly remember a time when just her lightest touch could set her husband on fire. But she wasn’t enough, not anymore.

 

The next morning Bob left her. She stood in the garage, leaning into his car window; her husband barely acknowledged her. “H-Have a great trip,” she sniffled, annoyed by her own lack of emotional control. But all her anger of the previous night was gone, replaced by deep desperation and sorrow. She was losing him. She didn’t want to let him go. She wanted to wrap her arms around him a dozen times until he was unable to escape.

“Thanks, honey,” he said, disinterested, not even noticing her turmoil.

When she told him she loved him, Bob responded in kind, and Helen Parr—who, as you know, was not inclined to see the best in people—didn’t believe him.

And when he drove away down the road, Helen raised a hesitant hand in goodbye, not sure if this was the last time she’d ever see him. If he would just stay with his mistress this time, never bothering to return to this boring life.

Helen bored him. She just had to accept it. Bob wanted derring-do, he wanted adventure. He was still Mr. Incredible after all these years, and while Elastigirl, the sexy and badass superhero, could easily allure him, it wasn’t so easy for drab housewife Helen Parr to win his affections.

She allowed herself to believe the worst, as she did almost always, and believe that her husband was never coming back.

 


End file.
